First And Ten, Part 2 free porn video

First and Ten Part 2 Nancy Cole I'd like to thank those who have already read Part One and commented on it. Your thoughts are very much appreciated and helpful. I'll admit up front, Part Two has made a sharp turn, one some of you might not find enjoyable. However, if you're like me and enjoy stories that have some depth to them and a few surprises, I hope you find where we're going interesting enough to keep up as Jordan comes to realize that her newly discovered gender issues are the least of her concerns. Enjoy! ----------------------------- Chapter Six As she was reaching for the doorknob, I asked my sister for the umpteenth time, "Are you sure about this?" Making no effort to hide her growing frustration, Emma looked back over her shoulder to where I was standing, arms folded tightly across my chest regarding her with something akin to a mixture of concern and sheer, unadulterated terror. "What is the matter with you?" she snapped. "We've already been over this God knows how many times. You'll be fine." "I don't know. I mean, going out dressed like this in broad daylight is, well it's strange, not to mention terrifying," I explained. "This," at the moment, consisted of a dusty rose cotton blazer over a pale yellow silk blouse, a denim skirt that almost reached my knees and a pair of brown loafers. With one hand still grasping the doorknob and the other on her hip, Emma half turned and glared at me, making no effort to hide her growing exasperation with my sudden reluctance to spend Saturday afternoon shopping with her. The idea of doing so while dressed in female attire was something that had, over lunch on Wednesday, sounded perfectly reasonable. Now, however, when it came time to put that plan into practice, I found myself reassessing the whole, 'let's see where this is going by giving it a whirl,' strategy Emma was advocating. "What are you afraid of?" she asked doing her best to keep her growing exasperation in check. "You look great. Hell, next to you I look like Little Orphan Annie." Under ordinary circumstances I would have countered M's self-deprecating humor with a quick, witty remark. At the moment, however, my brain was suffering from a sever case of vapor lock as I stared at the door as if Hell fire and damnation lay just on the other side. "Will you get a grip," my sister implored as she began to tap her toe, a habit that was her version of counting to ten. "Look," she stated doing her best to keep her tone even, "you've already gone out to dinner with two very cute guys who never suspected a thing. Compared to that, this will be a piece of cake. The odds of someone pegging you as anything other than what you appear to be is somewhere between zilch and nil. And even if they do, what's the big whoop? You know how New Yorkers are." Despite the flawless logic of her argument, I still found it impossible to take that last step. Finally, having exhausted every ploy and argument she could think of, Emma reached out, grabbed my arm as she opened the door and all but flung me out her apartment, making my next step on this strange journey of mine more of a nosedive. As I had the previous Sunday, I trailed behind my sister, doing my best to stay in her shadow, keeping my head bowed low while hanging onto the strap of the shoulder bag she'd given me with both hands as if it were some sort of life line. Emma was only able to tolerate this for a few blocks. Annoyed by my antics, once more she reached behind, took me by the arm and pulled me until we were walking side by side. "Jordan," she admonished in a low voice, "remember what I told you. Chin up, shoulders back and eyes straight ahead." "Easier said then done," I muttered while nervously peeking up at people we were passing in the street. "The more you do that," she added, "the more people will look at you, wondering what it is that you're frightened of or trying to hide." She was right, of course. I knew she was right. Knowing that someone was right and doing something about it, however, were poles apart. "You know," she stated she stated doing little to hide the exasperation she felt, "for someone who spent over a year trolling the mean streets of Baghdad, you can be quite a panty waist." It didn't take a rocket scientist to realize that my sister, in her own backwards sort of way, was appealing to my pride while injecting a spot of humor into what was, for me, a very nerve wracking ordeal. I responded in kind. "That was different," I mutter. Back then I was armed." "Jordon, you're not exactly defenseless, you know." "Yeah, right," I sneered as I fixed my gaze on a young man walking in the opposite direction who was paying far too much attention to me than I cared for. Having noticed my response to the stranger, M glanced over at me out of the corner of her eye. "Take that little exchange, for example." "What exchange?" "The way you handled that guy," Emma explained slowly as if talking to a six year old. "Instead of doing the guy thing and trying to stare him down, all you had to do was flash him a little half smile. Nothing really showy or pretentious. Just a casual, off handed acknowledgement that you caught him eyeing you up. Nine times out of ten the guy will return your smile, then avert his eyes." "And if he doesn't?" "Then, I suppose," she replied with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, "you can do the guy thing and beat him over the head and shoulders with your purse." "M, I'm being serious." "So am I," she announced crisply before grabbing my arm and swinging me about until we were both standing before a store window, looking at out reflections. "Tell me, what do you see?" Unlike back at the apartment where I'd been fixated on small, detailed aspects of my hair, makeup and clothing, I was able to consider the overall image before me. Even though I knew exactly what was lurking beneath the denim skirt I was wearing, I found it impossible to see the tall redhead before me as anything other than a fetching young woman. Shoving all modesty aside, had I seen a girl walking down the street looking as good as I did at the moment, I would have slowed my pace and allowed my eyes linger far longer than was polite, just as a middle aged man walking his dog was doing at the very moment behind me. Glancing up at his reflection in the window, I caught his eye, smiling as I did so. His response was as my sister had predicted. The man returned my smile before turning his attention back to what he'd been doing. "Okay, okay," I finally admitted. "You win, as always." "Good," M stated triumphantly as she once more swung me about and stepped off at a brisk pace. "Just remember, you are your own worse enemy. Present yourself to the world as a frightened, mousey little waif and the world will treat you as a frightened, mousey little waif. Carry yourself as a young lovely young woman and it'll be eating out of you hand." "Right now I'd settle for ignoring me." Emma let out a very unlady like guffaw. "With that hair and those legs? Not likely, dear sweet cousin of mine, not likely." * Mercifully, Emma led me to Macy's on 34th Street, sparing me the trauma of having to collect myself every time a stray breeze whipping along the street swept up my legs and under my skirt. Once inside, we headed straight for the men's department in order to begin the arduous task of replacing the clothes I'd lost in her laundry room. Feeling a little guilty over the theft and tired of hearing me moan about the cost of doing so, my sister volunteered to pick up the tab for that, provided I didn't go hog wild. Though tempted to tell her that I deserved to spurge in light of the favor I'd done for her by keeping Aaron busy the pervious week, I keep quiet. The last thing I wanted to do was to was to remind her, as well as myself, that I had entertained a young man in a manner that was, for me, awkward, to say the least. Instead, I turned to her and asked why we were on the prowl for male garb first instead of shopping for a few of my very own female apparel as we'd discussed on Wednesday. "Elementary, my dear Watt's," she quibbled. "Business before pleasure. Besides," she added as we began to rummage through a stack of jeans looking for my size, "you still need to get used to this," she stated giving me a quick once over out of the corner of her eye to indicate my appearance. "You also need to become comfortable dealing with sales clerks and other customers when out and about as my cousin before we head off into the women's department. What better place," she concluded, "then here, in familiar surroundings doing something you're used to." As always, M's logic was impeccable. Her assumptions on how I would go about shopping for a replacement wardrobe was also spot on. In typical male fashion I found a pair of jeans in my size, held them out at arm's length and, after ensuring myself that they had two legs and a zipper that worked, draped them over my arm before proceeding on to the next item on my mental agenda. Taking note of this, Emma snickered. "I hope you don't plan on doing that later." I brushed aside her subtle reminder that I'd have to try things on when we started looking at female apparel with a bit of humor. Glancing down at what I was wearing, I cocked an eyebrow and gave her a 'get real' look. "I hardly think I'm in a position to go waltzing into the male changing room and try this stuff on. Even in New York City that sort of thing is frowned upon in most circles." My sister shrugged. "I guess you've got a point there. I didn't think of that." Feigning horror, I brought my free hand up to my chest and staggered backwards. "Oh-my-God! My sister is actually able to admit she's wrong. What's this world coming to?" My antics drew some unwanted attention our way, causing Emma to schuss me while giving me a playful slap on the arm. "Behave. And," she added before returning to what she'd been doing, "you're my cousin." "Why couldn't I be your sister? It would have been one less thing for me to remember." "Because I told Connor that I had only one sibling, a brother." "So? If the subject ever comes up again, which I doubt, refer to me as your sister." Tilting her head, Emma looked at me askew. "You're kidding, right?" "I'm serious. Look, while you may know everything there is about being a woman, I dare say I have a pretty good handle on how men think, evidence to the contrary. Conner doesn't give a rip about who I am or how we're related. You're the object of his affections, not me. To him I'm background noise, an annoying speed bump on his road to getting to know you better than I care to think about, if you know what I mean." Blushing, Emma paused as she handed me a pair of jeans she'd pulled out of a pile that was threatening to topple over onto the floor. "I guess you've got a point. I suppose referring to you my sister would make this a whole lot easier. One less fib that could trip us up." "Oh yeah," I snorted. "That'll make all the difference. Now, let's get this over with and get to the 'fun' part of this little excursion into the surreal." Ignoring my sarcastic tone, Emma smiled. "That's the spirit. Now, I think two pair of jeans should do nicely since you operate under the typical guy policy of one pair on your butt and one pair in the hamper." "Hey, stop picking on me." Emma winked. "Never! Now, let's find you some cute tops to go with them and get down to the down to the really hardcore chore of shopping for my sister." Chapter Seven Having skipped lunch, we decided to treat ourselves to an early dinner, but not before stopping off at Emma's place to drop off our purchases and changing. Knowing that it would be pointless to protest, I didn't even try. Dealing with my headstrong sister when she got an idea in her head was like trying to negotiate with the Borg; resistance was futile. So, once more I found myself in her bedroom, seated before her dresser as she took her time showing me how to turn a simple, understated daytime look into something more dramatic, suitable for a night out on the town. Not that I minded. Having braved the teaming masses of frenzied shoppers in one of the world's largest department stores, I was finally getting to the point where I was able to relax a bit and actually begin to enjoy the experience. That I was enjoying myself was, by now, something that I didn't even try to hide. I wasn't sure what, exactly, it was that was so appealing to me about the role I was playing, if you could call what I was doing a role. Having read up on the subject of transgender behavior I couldn't even be sure if I was pretending to be female or if there was something else going on, something my psyche had suppressed until Emma had, quite by accident, awaken it. The possibility that I just might be having serious issues concerning my true gender was an idea that I couldn't discount. At that moment I could have come up with any number of answers to that question, none of which could be proven with any degree of certainty one way or the other. One thing I was certain about; whatever it was that was allowing me, no, compelling me to venture further along the rather twisted trail I was treading was still very much a puzzle to me, one without key. It was, as Winston Churchill once stated, a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. I guess my expression betrayed my thoughts, for Emma stopped running the brush through my hair and, resting her hands upon my shoulders, looked in the mirror at the reflection of my eyes. "Penny for your thoughts?" I heaved an audible sigh. "I'm afraid at the moment they're not on the open market." A worried look flashed across M's face. "I'm pushing you too hard, aren't I?' Doing my best to waylay her fears, I reach up with my right hand and patted the hand resting on my left shoulder. "It's not you or anything you've done." Then, giving her a mischievous wink, I corrected myself. "Actually, come to think of it, strike that last part." When I saw that my rather lame stab at humor had eased her concern, I did the best I could to explain my current state of mind. "So much of me is telling me that I shouldn't be doing this, much less enjoying it. And yet here I sit, lapping up the experience of being a woman like a man lost in the desert and dying of thirst who suddenly happens upon a well. He doesn't greet his discovery by ask how he got there or where he is. He doesn't even worry if the water is tainted or being guarded by a rival tribe. All he knows is that a very basic need of his must satisfied if he is to survive, consequences be damned. The only difference between him and where I am at the moment," I concluded whimsically, "is that my allegorical man knows what is compelling him to throw all caution to the wind and how to satisfy his needs. I, on the other hand, am clueless." Giving my shoulders a gentle, reassuring squeeze, my sister smiled. "Where ever it is this is taking you, and what ever that "This" is, know that I'm here for you." Unable to help myself and not caring a wit about messing up what Emma had done to my hair and face, I twisted about on the little stool I'd been perched up, wrapped my arms about Emma's waist and gave her a fierce hug. * Once we were both sorted out and ready to face the world again, M and I sallied forth in search of dinner. We both settled on Carmine's, a family style Italian restaurant located on 44th Street between 8th Avenue and Broadway. While M waited for her veal and I, my chicken parm, we munched to fried calamari and sipped Chianti. In the midst of our banter that wandered from one subject to the next as the mood struck us, my sister suggested that I should try working on my voice. Not quite understanding what she was saying, I regarded her with furrowed brow. "What's wrong with my voice?" I guess my response was a bit sharper than I had intended it to be, for she hesitated before answering, taking a sip of her wine while she marshaled her thoughts. "I'm not saying that it's bad or anything like that. But," she added quickly, "you could do better if you want to make it sound more, um, feminine, if you know what I mean." "How?" Knowing that she now had my attention, Emma relaxed. "You can start by modulating it. Instead of hauling your words up from the gut like most guys do, use only the air in your lungs when you speak. You know, breathy." "You mean like this?" I replied giving her suggestion a try. Emma made a face. "Whimsical, not lame. Listen to me." Unable to help myself, I snickered. "M, I have been listening to you and look where it's gotten me." "Ha, ha. Very funny. Now, try that again, only this time from you chest, not your throat. You're trying to sound like a human female, not Minnie Mouse." After taking a sip of wine, I close my eyes and thought for a moment before giving it a go. "Okay, how about this? Does that hit nearer the mark, or am I still overdoing it?" "Better," she announced. "Now, let's work on you choice of words and inflection." The temptation to say something crude, using words that were more appropriate for the barracks was checked my appreciation of our surroundings. Instead, I listened as Emma took me through a brief tutorial on the differences between male and female speech patters. "When men speak they tend to do so in flat monotonous tones, exchanging data, not conversing. Women, on the other hand, vary their range of tones when they speak, going up and down the scale as the mood strikes them." The manner with which she demonstrated what she was telling me as she spoke caused me to smile. While not being totally unmindful to the people around me, I'd never paid any attention to how my friends who were male spoke, or how that differed from the girls I knew. I made a mental note to pay closer attention to that in the future. "Even the pattern of discourse and the words we use differ according to gender," M explained. "Men tend to be more self assured, using words that are assertive to establish their dominance. Women, on the other hand, have a habit to be hesitant, more submissive when they speak. I mean, how many times have you heard a girl say, 'I don't know,' or 'are you sure?' in a high, faltering, almost plaintive tone." Picking up my wine glass, I titled my head as I regarded Emma. "From you? Never." Though tempted to reach across the table and give me a playful slap, the arrival of our meals brought M's lecture on gender speak to an end but not my lesson. Throughout the meal, as we chatted I tried my best to practice what my sister had told me. For her part M patiently coached me along, giving me pointers when appropriate. Other than that, we both set aside any serious discourse on my new found persona and instead, enjoyed a meal that was far more relaxed then one I'd shared with her the previous Sunday. Though not completely oblivious to the way I was dressed, by the time we'd finished our coffee I was far more at ease with my presentation as a female than logic would have otherwise dictated, further reinforcing my suspicion that there was something going on deep down inside of me, something that my subconscious mind was, for the moment, quite unwilling to yield up. * Having spent the better part of the day out and about, mingling with the Mid-town crowds, Emma suggested that we spend a quite evening at her place, watching a DVD and enjoy some serious junk food. It was an idea I readily bought into. While I had managed to become comfortable in female attire over the course of the afternoon, the opportunity to kick back and literally let my hair down was more than welcomed. Still, when I ducked into M's spare room to change, I didn't remove my makeup or change into any of the male clothing I'd purchased earlier that day. Instead, I slipped into a pair of loose, grey jogging pants belonging to my sister and a lime green top. After brushing out my hair, I gathered it up in a ponytail at the back of my head and secured it with a black scrunchie I found in the guest bathroom. When I joined M in the living room she stopped what she was doing, arching an eyebrow as she took in my appearance, but said nothing. Instead, we curled up on opposite ends of the sofa with a large bowl of popcorn between as we settled in to watch a Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore movie about an aging pop star and a quirky New Yorker. When it was over we chatted about this and that until it was time to turn in. As we were cleaning up M asked if I'd like to spend the night rather than trudging my way back to my dorm. Though she'd made that offer many times before, this was the first time I seriously considered taking her up on it. Sensing that I was wavering, she crossed the room and gave me a hug. "Please stay," she murmured. Before I could fob her off with the weak excuse that I had nothing to wear to bed, she took off headed for her bedroom. "Let me get you something to slip into," she called over her shoulder. "You'll love it." Chapter Eight Waking up in a strange bed is one thing. Waking up wearing a silky nightshirt was even stranger. Not unpleasant, mind you. Just strange. After brushing my hair out of my face, I took a moment to stretch out in bed, going over in my mind the events of the previous day and wondering where I was going with this. I knew there was more to it than a simple lark, an excuse I'd relied upon the previous week to justify my decision to buy into my sister's insane idea to pose as her cousin. That justification, I told myself, went out the window the second I made my first purchase in the women's department at Macy's. After all, a person in my position could ill afford to waste money on things they didn't intent to use. Even the kind of clothing I'd purchased reinforced the supposition that, at some unconscious level, I was taking what I was doing seriously for all of the female attire I'd picked was quite practical, basic items that would serve as the foundation of my feminine wardrobe. Even the panties were rather tame and, according to Emma, boring. While her comment had been made in jest, it was an observation that allowed me to discount the possibility that my new found interest in female apparel stemmed from some sort of fetish. That I was sure of. Unfortunately, it was the only thing I was sure of. Everything else about what I was doing was, for the time being, a great, unfathomable mystery to me. No longer sleepy and not wanting to linger any further on why I was doing any of this, I hopped out, slipped on a terry cloth bathrobe M had lent me and padded my way into the kitchen. To my surprise I found my sister was already up, dressed and fixing coffee. "Well, what's with the smart outfit?" Startled, she spun about. After taking a moment to calm down, she let out a nervous laugh. "Sorry, Jordan. I'm not used to having someone stay with me overnight." "Not even Conner?" I quibbled. She gave me a dirty look. "Especially Conner. We've not gotten that far, yet," she added wistfully. "Your father would be rather pleased to hear you say that." Turning up her nose at the mention of our father, Emma turned around and went back to what she'd been doing while I opened the fridge, pushing aside half empty containers of take out in search of the orange juice. "I see you still haven't forgiven him for leaving Mom like he did." "Can you blame me?" she snapped without bothering turn around. "You weren't there in the end. You didn't have to sit with Mom in a cold, lifeless hospital room night after night, holding her hand, listening to her pine away after a man who'd left her for another woman." Stopping what I was doing, I stood up and looked over to where my sister was standing. Despite having her back to me I could tell she was struggling to hold her tears back. Going over to her, I place my hands on her shoulders. "I tried to get back but . . ." She didn't let me finish. Instead, Emma whirled around and threw her arms about my waste before placing her head on my shoulder. "I know, I know," she whispered. "I just miss her so much." Wrapping my arms about her, I slowly rocked Emma, just as my mother had done to us when we were children. "I know. I miss her too." I held my sister like that until she'd composed herself. Pulling away slowly, she wiped away a stray tear, taking care so as not to mess up her makeup. Seeing an opportunity to change the subject, I asked her what was up with the smart pants suite and makeup. "Oh, that. Sorry, but with all the running around we did yesterday I forgot about this morning. Some friends of mine get together every so often on Sunday mornings and have brunch together." "Will Conner be there?" I asked giving her a wicked smile. "It's a girls only thing," she explained. Then, looking up at me, she grinned. "How would you like to join us?" I quickly back peddled, waving her off as I did so. "Ah, not thanks. This little fledgling isn't quite ready for a full blown hen party." "It's not a hen party. Just some friends getting together to catch up on what's going on in each other's lives. You know, how everyone is doing at work, how our relationships are going, fun things we've all been up to. Stuff like that." "Sounds like a hen party to me," I countered. "Besides, I've some catching up to do myself. I need to finish the section on the Thirty Years War for my Western European history class before the games this afternoon. The Giants play Philly, you know." "Are you going to do your reading here and watch the game?" Emma asked as she pulled two cups out of the cabinet. "Is the Pope Catholic?" ? Emma had been gone for an hour, maybe more when the intercom buzzer interrupted me right in the middle of Gustavus Adolphus's campaign against Wallenstein. Sliding a marker in the book I'd been reading to keep my place, I set it aside and answered the intercom, doing so in my best feminine voice since I was wearing a pair of hip hugging female jeans, a stretchy top I'd purchased at Macy's and a hint of mascara, blush and lip gloss. For some reason, I expected it to be one of Emma's friends, late for their brunch or some such thing. Unfortunately, it turned out to be Conner. Caught totally off balance, over the intercom I asked him what he wanted. I could clearly hear him chuckle before he told me he'd just gotten off work and rather then going home, he'd decided to stop by to see if Emma was interested in joining him for lunch. "Ah, she's not here at the moment." "When will she be back?" Though I was talking to him over the intercom, I shook my head and shrugged. "I don't know. Soon, I think." "Well, can I wait for her?" A good question, one I wasn't sure I knew how to answer. On one hand, if I said no I could quickly put an end to this awkward situation and get back to my reading. That, however, would have meant denying my sister an opportunity to spend more time with someone she was keen on getting to know better. I was still tallying up the pros and cons of each option when Conner hit the intercom button again. "Hello? Jordan? Are you still with me? Helloooo?" Totally flummoxed, I opened my mouth, closed it, and opened it again before answering. "Ah, yes. It's me. I'm still here." "Well?" "Well what?" Again, I could hear him chuckle. "Can I come up and wait for her?" I panicked. "Yeah, sure." After pressing the button to let him in downstairs, I dashed over to where my cell phone was and called Emma, explaining to her what was going on. As expected, she was excited by this unexpected opportunity and told me she'd be back in a flash. Before she could hang up, I asked her what I should do while I was waiting for her to show up and save me. Equally flustered by this sudden turn in events, Emma whined. "I don't know? You're a smart girl. Think of something." Setting aside the annoying little fact that I wasn't exactly a girl, I did my best to maintain my focus on the problem at hand. "Like what?" "I don't know Jordan. How do you usually entertain men?" Despite the bizarre situation I found myself in, I couldn't help but laugh. "Well, I could always arm wrestle with him." I guess that comment served to remind M of my plight. "Oh! Yes. Right. Listen," she continued after a brief pause, "I know this has got to be difficult for you and more than a little strange, but please do the best you can, will you? I'll make my excuses here, pay my check and be there before you know it. Okay?" Having already opened the barn door, so to say, all I could do was heave a sigh. "Sure, great. I'll see you when I see you." With that, I clicked off my cell before taking a moment to collect myself and check my appearance in the mirror, prepared to engage in the sort of delaying action I wasn't really equipped for. Greeting Conner at the door, I could tell by his smug expression that he'd found my scattered brain performance over the intercom to be quite amusing. Not knowing what else to do, I stood there before him, practically wringing my hands as I nervously shifted my weight from one foot to the next. "Ah, would you care some coffee or something?" I don't know why it is, but men seem to derive great pleasure in rattling a girl's cage. Having watched my friends behave the way Conner was at the moment when they were dealing with women didn't help me any since I'd never bothered to ask them to explain what it was that they found so amusing about situations like this. As I beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen to fetch the coffee and collect myself, I made a mental note to do so the next time that happened. As disconcerting as Conner's sudden appearance had been, the sight that greeted me as I emerged from the kitchen bearing a cup of coffee in each hand, really threw me for a loop. Standing in the middle f the living room, with is back to me, the object of Emma's affection was in the process of removing the blazer he'd been wearing. That, in itself, was unimportant. It was the belt holster containing a 9mm pistol that caught my eye and caused me to stop mid-stride. When he took note of me standing there, wide-eyed staring at his pistol, Conner's face once more lit up with an impish grin. "Ah, I see Emma hasn't told you I'm with the FBI." After giving my head a quick shake, I proceeded into the living room, wondering why Emma had neglected to fill me in on that little factoid. Not that it would have surprised me in the least if, in her excitement, she'd somehow managed to overlook that trivial piece of information. I guess Conner could tell by my expression that I was a little annoyed by M's negligence. "Please don't blame your sister. I asked her not to go about broadcasting what it is I do, though," he added as he took the cup I was offering him, "I'm rather astonished that she didn't tell you." I let out a mirthless laugh. "That's my sister for you." The smile that had been Conner's lips disappeared as he tilted his head to one side and look at me with furrowed brow. "Sister? I thought you two were cousins" In the blink of an eye I realized that I'd screwed up. "Ah, yes," I stuttered as I spun about and made for a chair that was as far from Conner as the room would permit. "She's, ah, my sister. We, ah, mess around like that, you know. Mess with people's minds and all. It's sort of a private joke, if you know what I mean." Amused by my pathetic flailing, Conner took a seat and watched me as I continued to thrash about in search of a reasonable explanation. "M is quite the practical joker, you know." "If you say so," Conner stated in an even tone. "Ah, yes, she is. Until she gets to know someone really, really well, she likes to keep a close hold on personal information, you know, like her family and all." "So," Conner asked after taking a sip of coffee, "what else hasn't your sister told me about you?" "Ah, I don't know. I mean, I guess you know I'm majoring history at NYU. I'm, ah twenty-five years old, and, ah . . ." The idea of blurting out, 'and I'm really a guy,' flashed through my befuddled brain but for a second before I banished that thought to the nearest mental trash bin. Instead, I tried to think of some embarrassing little tidbit about my sister that I could share with Conner as payback for the awkward position she'd dropped me in, something juicy that get a raise out of her but not screw up her chances with the man seated across from me. I was in the midst of rummaging about my memory looking for something that fit that criteria when Connor stepped in to fill the silence. "Was that bit about you being a medic in Iraq true, or were you just trying to shut Aaron down?" I'm not exactly sure whether it was the tone in his voice or the smug grin on his face that caused me to suddenly rear up and take offense at Conner's comment. Whatever it was, I went from bumbling fool to viper before the poor man realized what'd happened. "Yes," I snapped. "And I spent eight months in Afghanistan as well. Do you have a problem with that?" I could tell by his expression that he knew he'd touched a raw nerve. As Aaron had done the previous week, his cheeks began to color as he averted his eyes. After taking a moment to collect his thoughts, he sheepishly looked back up at me. "I'm sorry," he muttered in a very low, apologetic tone. "I didn't mean to offend you." Having been afforded an opportunity to collect myself as well during the brief interlude, I sighed. "No, I apologize. I didn't mean to snap like that. It's just that . . ." "Please, don't," he stated quickly, looking over at me as he did so. "Don't apologize. And don't try to explain. You, of all people, have no need to justify your behavior. Heavens knows, you've earned the right to be angry when a jackass like me makes light of your service to our country." Not knowing what else to say, I gave him a wan smile. "Thank you." * When Emma finally showed up, Conner didn't even give her the opportunity slip off her jacket. Instead, he suggested they head out and grab a bite to eat. As welcome as this quick exit was, it didn't allow me any time to explain what had transpired between Conner and I, though I think Emma guessed something had gone on by our demeanor. At the moment, I didn't much care about anything other than seeing the two of them out the door, changing into my male garb and fleeing back to my dorm room. I'd had enough 'Fun' for one weekend. What I needed now was some serious down time, an opportunity to take a step back and sort through everything that had gone on over the course of the past week plus and see if any of those experiences shed some light on what was going on inside my very confused and rather befuddled head. Easier said then done. Chapter Nine My efforts to set aside any thoughts concerning my strange journey into Genderland by losing myself in the pursuit of academic excellence were rudely interrupted on Tuesday by a call on my cell phone that showed up on my caller ID as the NYC FBI field office. There was, of course, no doubt in my mind who was calling me from there. It had to be Conner. What I couldn't figure out was why he was calling me. Since there was always the possibility that he was going to apologize again for the way he'd behaved on Sunday, I saw no harm in taking the call. After pausing a moment to modulate my voice into something that would be more familiar to him, I answered. "Conner, what an unexpected surprise," an understatement I thought to myself, if ever there was one. "Yes, well, ah, I was wondering if you could come down to 26 Federal Plaza sometime this afternoon." Doing my best to ignore the klaxon that was ringing in my head and all but drowning out any coherent thought, I managed to maintain some semblance of calm. "Well, I don't know. I, um, have classes this afternoon that I really can't . . ." "Jordan, this is important." There was no mistaking Conner's tone of voice; assertive, uncompromising, and urgent. Not being the sort of person who is able to set aside bad news and let it fester, I agreed to meet him there at 2 PM. That would give me more than enough time to dash uptown to my sister's and change into something that better fit Conner's image of what he thought I was before making my way back downtown to Federal Plaza. Unfortunately, it also gave me my fertile imagination more than enough time to conjure up all sorts of scenarios as to why Conner needed to see me. None of them were very promising. All proved to be very, very wrong. * As I waited in the lobby of 26 Federal Plaza for Conner to come down and meet me, I felt an old familiar feeling beginning to take hold. It was one I hadn't felt in a long time, one that always gripped me as the rifle platoon I was attached gathered together before trotting out to the line of waiting Blackhawks that would whisk away us into harms way. Closing my eyes, I could almost hear the whine of the choppers' turbine engines, smell the sickly sweet scent of their hot hydraulic fluids as it mingled with sweat and nervous perspiration of the men around me. It was a very human response to pending danger, one that prepared the body for fight or flight. Only I never had the option to take advantage of the latter. I was the platoon's medic, someone who was expected to go forward whenever I heard the pitiful cries of a wounded mate, a friend who needed my help and expected me to come, consequence be damned. I was still dwelling on the growing turmoil that was roiling within me when I heard Conner's voice. Opening my eyes, I blinked twice, gave my head a quick shake as if to clear it and then, mustering up every ounce of strength that I call on, managed to come up with something akin to a smile. His inability to respond in kind, as well as a grim, almost funereal expression spoke legions. Without having to say a thing, I could tell that he was just as uncomfortable with what was going on as I was. The task of signing in and drawing a visitors pass turned out to be far less contentious than one would have imagined, thanks in no small part to a first name that could be used for either a man or a woman and a driver's license ID photo that did nothing to clear up any confusion over that issue. Were it not for the section that listed my real sex, my current driver's license would have been sufficient to get me by no matter how I was dressed. Taking the lead, Conner led me to a bank of elevators where we waited in silence with several other people. When the first car appeared, he hesitated, muttering to the person inside the car who standing before the row of buttons that we'd catch the next one. When it showed up and he was sure that we'd be its only occupants, Conner shepherded me in, hit the button for the 23rd floor and stepped back to the rear of the car. Only when the doors were closed and we were alone did he look over at me out of the corner of his eye. "Listen, Jordan, I'm sorry about this." Ignoring the sincere contrition he was struggling to express, I decided that it was time for me to stuff all pretenses. "What exactly, are you sorry about?" I asked in a manner that was firm without being rude. "Why am I here and what, may I ask, is so important that it couldn't wait till tomorrow afternoon when I didn't have any classes." Unable to meet my gaze, he looked away as his cheeks took on the distinct hue of acute guilt. Concluding that whatever it was that he'd managed to get me tangled up with was no longer in his hands, I checked my anger and instead, began to prepare myself for the coming ordeal. Once on the 23rd floor, where the offices of the FBI's New York City Field Division were located, Connor once more took the lead, walking at a fairly brisk pace that left me wondering if he was in a hurry to make an appointment or doing his best to flee from me. I suppose, given the way he'd behaved in the elevator, it was a little of both. The office he took me took me to belonged to Special Agent Michael Moore, a name that, no doubt, caused him more than his fair share of grief from his fellow agents. Unlike his Hollywood namesake, Special Agent Moore was lean, well dressed and quite tall from what I could tell. Were it not for the scowl that seemed to be a fixed feature, he'd had made a marvelous stand in for Denzel Washington. As we entered Moore's small office he made no effort to stand up and greet me. Instead, he told Connor to close the door. Having served in the Army, I saw this as a prelude to the sort of discussions that are seldom friendly or beneficial to the visitor. With nothing more than a sweep of his hand, Moore indicated a chair before the desk he was seated behind. Once I'd settled in, he took a moment to study me from head to toe before glancing down at an open file situated in the middle of his neat, well ordered desk. His behavior reminded me of a company commander preparing to issue an Article 15, a military form of non-judicial punishment use to deal with offenses that do not warrant a court martial. It was an experience that I'd endured but once, not long after I'd been released from Walter Reed Army Hospital. Judging from the golden globe and anchor pin he wore on the lapel of his suite jacket, I guessed that this wasn't Moore's first time either, though I could tell by his behavior that he'd been on the giving end and not, like me, the recipient. Only when he was ready, and after giving my growing anxiety ample opportunity to simmer a little longer, Moore finally looked back up at me. Clasping his hand together, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his desk. "No doubt you're wondering why we invited you down here today," he stated in an even tone that lacked any hint of warmth. Stuffing an urge to respond with a crisp, "no shit," I met his steady gaze in silence. "I'm Special Agent Moore, responsible for the FBI's counter-terrorism unit in the greater New York City area." No doubt my expression mirrored the sudden bewilderment that gripped me. "Terrorism? What's that got to do with me? I'm just a student." Whether he'd crafted his introduction for the expressed purpose of evoking the sort of response it generated was hard to tell as he continued to regard me with cold, hard dispassionate eyes. Without referring to any of the files resting beneath his forearms, he began to pepper me with a series of quick, disquieting questions. "You are Jordan Allen Wallace, born June 29th, 1983 in East Brunswick, New Jersey?" Unable to help myself, I closed my eyes and swallowed before nodding my head. "You're parents are divorced, mother deceased and you have a sister by the name of Emma who lives here in the city and works for A.K. Lehman and Sons." Opening my eyes, I again nodded, still unable to find my voice. "You enlisted in the Army in the summer of 2002, serving as a 91 Whiskey with the 101st Airborne. As part of that unit you did one full tour of duty in Iraq and part of one in Afghanistan where you earned a Purple Heart, a Bronze Star with "V" device and other assorted medals and commendations." This time I was able to respond with a low, if rather raspy, "yes," when he paused. "Were it not for a company grade Article 15 for disrespect to a superior ranking officer, your military record would have been spotless." Though no one who served under First Lieutenant Jerald Compton would have ever viewed that man as superior in any way, there was little doubt that he was an officer and I had been disrespectful of him, very disrespectful. Brushing aside that thought and having managed to accept that Moore, as well as Conner, knew all there was to know about me, good, bad and embarrassing, I decided that it was time to cut to the chase. "Everything you've said is all very true. What I don't understand is what you want with me. I've done nothing wrong, nothing, that is, that's a federal offense." Sensing that he had my full attention and could speak honestly and openly, Moore leaned back slightly, though he never broke eye contact with me as he did so. Neither did I. "Currently you're a sophomore at NYU, majoring in history." "That's right. So?" "One of your professors is a man by the name of Emmet J. Lange." Moore's remark about Lange wasn't a question, it was a statement, one that ratcheted up my already considerable anxiety even further. "That's right. I'm currently taking his course on the history of the Middle East, post World War I." "Do you know a Dr. Wahab Khalje?" Like a light going on in a dark room, the mention of Dr. Khalje's name told me where Moore was going. "Everyone who's in the History Department knows who Dr. Khalje is. He's not exactly a wall flower." My comment generated the first facial expression on Special Agent Moore's face that I'd been able to discern since entering his office, one that told me he was pleased that I finally had an inkling of where this conversation was going. "Khalje is the son of a tribal leader, born and raised in Northern Afghanistan. During the Soviet occupation of his country he fought for the mujahideen. When that war was over he came to America, earned his doctorate and took up teaching at NYU. While he's never been a supporter of the Taliban, he has become a critic of the American effort in Afghanistan." Unable to help myself, I had to chuckle at Moore's description of Dr. Khalje's opposition to American presence in his homeland. "Calling the good doctor a critic is like saying Genghis Kahn was unruly." Despite his best efforts, Moore couldn't help but react to my comment, allowing the corners of his mouth to tug at his lips in what I took as a smile, one that disappeared just as quickly as it had come. "What I'm about to tell you is classified," Moore stated slowly, once more leaning forward doing his best to brow beat me. "I trust that you will keep what I'm about to tell you to yourself." For the first time since entering Moore's office I saw an opportunity to take a swipe at the self assured, pompous ass seated before me. Leaning forward, I returned his penetrating stare with interest. "Just how much blood does a person have to shed in the defense of their country before the FBI trusts them?" As it had with Aaron in the restaurant and again with Conner two days ago, my less than subtle reminder to Moore that he was speaking to someone who'd traipsed through the Valley of Death gave him pause. And as the other two men had done, he found himself unable to keep from averting his eyes in an effort to collect himself and regroup. When he finally managed to pick up where he'd left off, I couldn't help but notice that his tone of voice wasn't near as strident. "It's a well established fact that Khalje is in contact with key leaders of Taliban back in Afghanistan as well as several Islamic fundamentalist groups here in the United States. We also know he's been busy, as of late, recruiting students of his who oppose the war and are eager to do something about it." "If you know all that," I interrupted, "why don't you arrest him?" For the first time since entering Moore's office Connor, who was seated against the wall to my right, spoke up. "First off, we don't have any evidence that he's really done anything wrong, at least nothing that would hold up in a court of law. More importantly, however, we believe that he's involved in something more provocative than simple campus protests." Looking first at Conner, then back at Moore, I asked the obvious. "Like what?" "That is what we need to find out," Moore answered crisply. Though tempted to ask him who the "We" were that he was speaking of, doing so would have been a waste of time. I'd already figured that one out on my own, thank you very much. Instead, I eased back in my seat, clasped my hands in my lap and asked what, exactly it was they wanted from me. "How familiar are you with Afghani culture?" Moore asked. "Not much, really," I replied, recalling all the futile efforts the battalion's intel officer had engaged in trying to teach us something about people who were bound and determined to use us as their ticket to paradise. With a nod, Moore indicated that it was time for Conner to take over. "Have you every heard the term bacch??" Looking over at the object of Emma's affections, I shook my head. "Can't say that I have." "Bacch? is a Turkic term that refers to an entertainer, of sorts." Once more alarm bells began to clamor in my head as my mind made several, rather unwelcomed leaps of logic as I waited for Conner to continue. Though he seemed to be as uncomfortable with what he was saying as I was hearing it, he pressed on manfully. "A bacch? is an adolescent male, usually between twelve and sixteen who sings erotic songs and performs sexually suggestive dances while dressed as a female." Unable to help myself, I closed my eyes, slumped down in my seat and covered my face with my hands. Without removing them, I shook my head. "Please don't tell me you're thinking what I think you're thinking." Neither men spoke as they waited for me to collect myself. When I finally dropped my hands back onto my lap, I drew a deep breath before looking over to where Conner was seated. His expression told me he was just as uncomfortable with what he was telling me as I was hearing it. "The custom of keeping bacch? pretty died out after the First World War," he continued, "but didn't completely disappear. In some tribal areas in Northern Afghanistan bacch? baazi, which means 'boy-play,' is still practiced as a time honored tradition by powerful men and tribal leaders." "Men such as Khalje's father," I stated softly. Connor nodded. Unable to bear the tortuous manner with which Conner was laboring to get to the point, I turned my attention back to Moore. "How's professor Lange figure into this? I mean, I know his opinion is rather skewed in favor of the Palestinians and everyone considers him to be a borderline anti-Semitic, but I've never heard him say anything in or out of class that lead me to believe that he was in league with radicals, Islamic or otherwise." "We suspect Lange is serves as a recruiter for Khalje," Conner stated. "As you've already mentioned, Lange, has no connections with the any Islamic Fundamentalist groups, which means he's pretty much off everyone's radar. That doesn't mean he isn't involved. We think he's a recruiter for Khalje, responsible for keeping an eye out for young students in his classes that fit Khalje's criteria, students who are opposed to the American war effort in Southwest Asia and express a desire to do something to stop it. If we're right, Lange sounds them out and vets them. If they pass muster, he encourages them to sign up for a special study group the good doctor runs." "By doing so, he insulates Khalje from possible informers," Moore added. "That's where you come in." Though I pretty much knew where all of this was going, I kept my mouth shut and listened. "To date, our efforts to get someone close to Khalje have been for naught," Moore explained. "Slipping one of our own people into one Lange's class has proven to be a waste of time and valuable resources, resources we can ill afford. Lange only sounds out students who've been a full time student at NYU for at least a year. That's why we believe a person, such as yourself, can accomplish what everyone else has failed to do." Determined to make Moore spell out exactly what he meant, I narrowed my eyes. "A person like me?" Conner's effort to spare his superior the embarrassment of answering my question was cut short by Moore who raised a hand to silence him. "In addition to being a second year student at NYU," Moore stated returning my stare, "Khalje, like his father, is a great believer in tradition. And, like his father, he has a thing for bacch?." As uncomfortable with the subject was, I couldn't help but use the opening I saw to mess with Moore's head. Sporting a shy little grin, I dropped my chin slightly and looked up at Moore through my lashes, batting them every so often as I spoke in a low, husky voice. "Special Agent Moore, I don't quite understand. As flattering as it may be, I don't see how anyone could possibly mistake me for an adolescent. I am, after all, twenty-six." The expression on Moore's face was priceless as his eyes widened and the color rose in his cheeks. Unable to help himself, Conner let out a very audible guffaw, one that earned him a look from Moore that could have peeled paint. After clearing his throat, Moore went onto detailing what it was that he had in mind. * On the way back down to the lobby I turned to Conner and asked him just how much of a threat Khalje was. Like his boss he was unwilling, or perhaps unable, to get specific. To make it easier for him and help me decide if I was going to buy into the insane little plan that his boss had asked me to consider, I posed a simple question to Conner. "On a scale of one to ten, with one meaning that Khalje was nothing more than a crackpot university professor with a big mouth and illusions of grandeur and ten equating him with Mohamed Atta, just how dangerous is he?" Before answering Connor glanced up at a corner of the elevator where I assumed a surveillance camera was located. Only after he'd given the matter some thought did he look down at me with a deadpan expression and answer simply by saying, "eleven." ----------------------------- Oh yeah, sorry about the glitches. Where's a good editor when you need one?